Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission

murdered Watts and why his death was staged to look like a suicide. Finding the answers to those two questions will help us to unravel the mystery surrounding the murder of your son.”
    No fibs so far, I thought to myself.
    Kate continued. “What we can tell you is that our investigation has all but ruled out the possibility that your son’s death was a murder connected to a burglary gone awry. Instead, we’re convinced that Levi’s murder was somehow connected to his employment as a member of the parole board.”
    “We are carefully examining our offender population for possible suspects,” I said. “We’re looking at current inmates as well as former prisoners to see who might have harbored a grudge against the parole board in general, or your son in particular.”
    We carefully skirted any reference to his son’s occasional visits to the Satin & Lace Club and the Starlite Motel. We couldn’t predict how Vogue might react to that kind of negative information.
    Vogue listened intently and without interruption. I had the feeling he was just as interested in sizing us up as he was in absorbing the information we had provided. Tillman, although quiet, had been scribbling away on his legal pad like a well-paid corporate lawyer should. After pausing momentarily, as though the lapse in conversation had given him time to digest everything we had shared, Vogue tossed us an unexpected curve.
    “I sincerely appreciate your taking the time to drop by on such short notice. It’s been most helpful. I’d like you to know that Helen and I are absolutely committed to finding out what happened to our son. We don’t care what it costs or how long it takes. We’re not going to rest until we have answers—all the answers.
    “With that end in mind, you should know that I’m considering hiring a team of private investigators, lead by a retired FBI agent, James Allen—you may know him—to look into my son’s death. Please don’t be offended. It isn’t personal. It’s just that I’ve been concerned from the outset that the police department hasn’t committed sufficient personnel to the investigation. I’ve reflected that concern to the appropriate city officials, unfortunately, to no avail. Should I elect to move forward with a parallel investigation, I hope that information will be shared by all parties, and that an atmosphere of mutual cooperation develops.”
    He didn’t give us an opportunity to discuss the merits of his proposal. He stood and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my son’s funeral begins in two hours.”

Chapter Twenty-eight
    As Kate and I drove back to Salt Lake City P.D., we discussed the implications of having to work with a team of private investigators. “I’ll tell you, Kate, and you’ve probably seen it too, when you get multiple agencies working the same case, it usually isn’t pretty. Instead of cooperation, you tend to get jealousy, petty bickering, and lots of turf protection. Assuming Vogue follows through with his plan, our investigation has the potential of becoming a first-rate clusterfuck.”
    Kate looked over at me. “What do you know about James Allen?”
    “Not much, I’m afraid. We’ve worked a couple of fugitive cases with some of his people in situations where one of our offenders committed a federal offense and then split the state. He retired about a year ago as the Special Agent in Charge of the Salt Lake City field office. He probably has solid management skills, but it sure doesn’t mean he was a good field agent. How about you?”
    “I don’t know him at all. But one thing we can probably be assured is that Mr. Vogue has the money and the smarts to hire competent people. I’d prefer that we not have to deal with it, but if we do, at least we should have that going for us.”
    “I agree. One thing we could do is urge the mayor and Chief Hansen to contact Vogue and try to talk him out of hiring privates, or at least buy us some more time. We could use that,” I said.
    ***
    I dropped Kate at police headquarters and headed back to my office. When I got there, Patti informed me that James Allen had called not once, but twice, asking that I return his call as soon as possible. It appeared Richard Vogue had moved well beyond the possibility of hiring a team of private investigators. He had already done so.
    I decided not to postpone the inevitable and dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring, with “Sam Kincaid, how are you?” Caller ID. More